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It was supposed to be a free day.
No Nevrons. No bloodshed. No progress. Just some much needed rest, a pause in the main plot.
Except you were in the clearing with Monoco—laughing.
Verso leaned on a rock, arms crossed, watching the two of you duel like he wasn’t trying to figure out if Monoco had always been this charming or if he was just choosing to be a problem today.
“Come on,” Monoco said, spinning his weapon with a flourish that was definitely unnecessary. “You’re holding back. That’s no fun.”
“I’m not holding back,” you corrected him, grinning. “You’re just smug.”
Monoco gasped theatrically. “You wound me.”
Verso exhaled through his nose. Loudly.
No one noticed.
The match resumed. Light-footed strikes, swift dodges, flourishes that bordered on flirtation—not that Monoco meant it like that, it was very very far from it. Monoco was Monoco.
But you were eating it up. Laughing at his dry jokes, teasing back, smiling like the world wasn’t burning around you.
Which—fine. Verso admitted it was good to see you happy despite the circumstances.
But did it have to be Monoco?
Esquie passed behind him at one point, carrying a rock. He didn’t even slow down (yes, even slower) before muttering, “You know sulking is a terrible tactical position.”
“I’m not sulking,” Verso defended himself, evidently to no avail.
“Mm-hm,” he said, and kept walking.
Monoco had just gotten disarmed—on purpose, probably—and was now regaling you with some ridiculous tale about dueling his way out of the floating casino.
“You fought the chef?” you asked, grinning.
Monoco put a hand over his heart. “With a ladle. A boiling ladle.”
Verso’s eye twitched.
A minute later, you sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Monoco under the shade. He handed you a water bottle and said something quiet. You laughed again.
And that was it.
Verso stood up and stalked over like he wasn’t being utterly obvious.
Monoco looked up first. “Ah. Commander. Come to inspect our form?”
“I came,” Verso said, “because I couldn’t hear myself think over the sound of your voice.”
Monoco replied, unbothered. “Would you like to spar too? I’m warmed up.”
“No thanks,” Verso said, eyeing you instead. “I’d hate to embarrass you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty confident, considering I nearly knocked your blade out of your hand two days ago.”
“That was a distraction tactic,” Verso deadpanned.
“Sure it was.”
Then Monoco, with the gall of a creature who feared absolutely nothing, said, “You’re welcome to join us, Verso. Y/n was just about to ask me about that shirtless human duel on the ring the other day. Very dramatic. Lots of shirt tearing.”
“I wasn’t going to ask about that part,” you muttered, cheeks flushing.
Verso sat down next to you, a little too close, shoulder nudging yours. “Too late. Storytime’s over.”
Monoco looked delighted. “Is it? Well, then. I suppose I’ll leave you two to your mysterious tension.”
You choked on a laugh. “Monoco!”
“I mean it lovingly,” he answered, grabbing his gear. “Try not to stab each other.”
Once he was gone, Verso finally relaxed.
Just a tiny bit.
You glanced over at him. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“You’re brooding like someone stole your sword.”
Verso sighed and leaned back on his hands, staring at the sky.
“He’s not that funny,”
You grinned. “He kind of is.”
“He’s dramatic. And extra. And has no concept of personal space.”
You tilted your head. “Are you, perhaps… jealous?”
Silence.
Then: “No.”
You tried not to laugh. “You so are.”
“I’m just saying,” Verso muttered, “I don’t see what’s so amazing about a Gestral who practically pirouettes when he dodges.”
“It’s called having a style, Verso.”
“It’s called unnecessary movement in combat.”
You gave him a look. “You’re kind of cute when you’re sulking.”
“I’m not—” he stopped. Blinked. “Wait. What?”
You leaned a little closer. “Healthy jealousy suits you a little.”
His expression shifted—surprise giving way to something warmer, something very close to hope. Then he looked away, fighting a smile.
“I wasn’t jealous,” he said again, quieter this time. “I just… didn’t like seeing someone else get all your attention.”
You nudged his arm gently. “Hey.”
He looked back at you.
“You’re the one I sit with at the end of the day,” you reminded him. “Not Monoco. Not Esquie, not the girls. You.”
Verso swallowed. “Yeah?”
“You know it.”
The moment settled between you, softer now.
Easier.
Then you added, teasing, “You would look good shirtless on that ring, by the way.”
He groaned. “Don’t start.”
Too late. You were already laughing.
And this time, he also smiled for real.